Page 146 of Without a Clue

I always love when he does this. It’s as fascinating as watching a rare, nearly extinct animal in its natural habitat.

These are the moments when Hugh’s insights are crystal clear, and when they come out, they come out with incredible accuracy. These are the moments when you realize you are in the company of brilliance.

Hugh, for all his faults (of which clearly there are many), is rarely wrong when it comes to manuscripts.

He’s guided every single one of The Magnificent Seven over the years, and that one-on-one consultation alone has been worth millions.

I don’t realize I’m crossing my arms so tightly I’m about to strangle myself until my chest starts constricting.

I scan his face for clues.

Is it horrible?

Is it beyond horrible?

I jump in when I can’t take it anymore. “I only just wrote it now—”

“Obviously,” he murmurs, eyes laser focused on the page.

“The idea just came, so it’s a bit rough.”

He doesn’t reply.

“And of course, this is still very new.”

He puts up a finger to shush me.

I reposition myself to stare at the wall in the distance (pointedly not the portholes).

At some point I look down at Nash.

He’s standing at the bottom of the stage, giving me space to have this moment.

I raise a questioning brow at him.

Is this going to be a good moment or a bad-talent-show wreck of one?

He tries to give me an encouraging smile, but his expression can’t lie. He doesn’t know either.

It could go either way.

My chest is tightening, my breaths coming shorter both from the anxiety and from the fact that being down here still is incredibly challenging, and Nash is just putting both hands onstage to hitch himself up when Hugh sighs.

Nash freezes.

I freeze.

We all freeze.

Hugh sits back on the stool.

Looks up.

At me.

At the audience.

At each of The Magnificent Seven at their table.